


Be Mean to Me

by TrebleTwenty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: (again they're having fun but they did just come from a bar), (they're having fun but should have talked beforehand), Baby's first smut, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Unsafe D/S Practices, Semi-Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Verbal Humiliation, sloppy blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 04:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15283653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrebleTwenty/pseuds/TrebleTwenty
Summary: The last thing Thunderclash was expecting when he followed Rodimus out of Swerve's to try and apologise for ruining his night out with Drift was to end up on his knees in front of him, with Rodimus induldging one of his biggest and most sorely neglected kinks, but he's not exactly about to complain.





	Be Mean to Me

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time be gentle uwu
> 
> no seriously though i've never written smut before of course its fucking transformers that does this to me  
> my brain just said 'thunderclash verbal humiliation kink' to me in december and since then my life has never known peace
> 
> this fic is named after a super sick DNCE song you should listen to it
> 
> enjoy my friends

“Again, Thunders?”

Thunderclash started at Ratchet’s hand on his shoulder. His old friend, toting a fresh drink, pulled out the stool next to him and sat down heavily.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he was saying, as Thunderclash morosely stirred his own drink, a spicy red number Swerve liked to call ‘the Hot Rod’, which Thunderclash had gotten because… well. Because. “You know he hates your struts, right?”

Ratchet followed Thunderclash’s longing gaze, directed out onto the dancefloor, and found Rodimus at the other end, exactly where Thunderclash’s optics tended to rest if he was left unattended for any great length of time.

“Yeah,” Thunderclash sighed sadly, slumping over the bar. “He does.” Ratchet looked at him pityingly. Out on the dancefloor Rodimus executed an enticing little wiggle, and Thunderclash groaned.

“This isn’t good for you, Clash,” Ratchet said.

“Yeah,” Thunderclash muttered dreamily, not really listening. Drift had just grabbed Rodimus by the hips, sending Thunderclash’s processor spinning in very interesting directions. Ratchet hit him.

“Ow!” Thunderclash pouted, rubbing the spot on his upper arm soothingly. He'd forgotten just how hard Ratchet could hit.

“I'm serious!” Ratchet insisted. “He's as stubborn as any other Prime! You might think you can change his mind, but you can't.”

“I'm not trying to, Ratchet,” Thunderclash said, not taking his eyes off the two speedsters as they gyrated on the dancefloor. “It's not a crime to admire a beautiful mech, right?”

“Right,” said Ratchet. The two sat in silence for a moment, watching Drift and Rodimus. Mechs with their frametypes tended towards being good dancers, and the pair of them were no exception. Although, Thunderclash thought at a sharp intake from Ratchet beside him, the provocativeness was probably something uniquely them. Rodimus did tend towards the flashy.

“All I'm saying is,” Ratchet said finally, “you deserve more. Most of the mechs here would love to get to know you better, if you could just tear your eyes away from our esteemed captain as he makes a scene of himself for one second.”

Thunderclash didn't reply, too caught up in his own processor, unable to explain just how much he didn't want them, how much he couldn't face that any more, some bot gazing up at him starry-eyed, desperate and eager to please. He felt, somewhere in his spark, that Rodimus wouldn't be like that. Rodimus would demand things, yes, with all the Primus-given confidence he led with, and Thunderclash would give them, happily.

“He's looking at you,” Thunderclash finally said, hoping to change the subject. Ratchet frowned.

“Who, Rodimus?” He asked.

“Drift,” Thunderclash said. It was true, in that Drift and Ratchet spent a lot of time looking at each other when they thought the other might not be looking back, and now was no exception. He lifted an only slightly wobbly hand and gestured at the two speedsters. “You should go over there.”

“Me?” Ratchet laughed out loud. “You do remember what I look like when I'm dancing, right?”

“Yeah?” Thunderclash gave him a look. “He wants you to go over there, Ratch. You want to say no to that face?”

Drift had noticed them watching and was waving at Ratchet with a bright grin on his face, invigorated by the dancing.

Ratchet waved back, almost hesitantly, a shy little smile on his face. Thunderclash stared, shocked, then gleeful.

“Shut up, you,” Ratchet grumbled, without looking at him.

Thunderclash thumped him on the shoulder.

“You're scaring me, Ratch,” he teased. “Go and talk to him.”

“Fiiiiiine.” Ratchet rolled his optics, and Thunderclash couldn't hold back his smile. That tone was classic Ratchet. Maybe the party ambulance was not as far away as he'd thought. 

“I'll go over there if it'll keep you happy,” Ratchet grumbled, “interfering fragger that you are. It's just Drift. I talk to Drift all the time, thank you very much. It's not hard.”

“Sure, Ratch,” Thunderclash said indulgently. Ratchet glowered, but after their long years of association Thunderclash was entirely immune to the worst of Ratchet’s sulks and moods, and merely looked significantly in the direction of Drift and Rodimus, who were really pulling out all the stops tonight, dear Primus. There were Mecha in the afterspark feeling a little hot under the plating.

Ratchet tossed back the rest of his drink in one smooth motion that spoke of his experience with hard liquor, and went over to the two speedsters on the dancefloor with his fists clenched in a way that did not speak of his experience with talking to Drift.

Thunderclash sat back with his drink and watched Ratchet and Drift greet each other, fondness for the awkward old ambulance bubbling up and making him chuckle at Ratchet just standing there on the dancefloor, completely still, until Drift took pity on him and grabbed his hand, trying to drag some kind of movement out of him. The look on Ratchet’s face was quite a picture. He'd always needed a little nudge when it came to matters of the spark, bless him.

Rodimus did not look as amused. 

Thunderclash’s spark fluttered for all the wrong reasons. In his haste to distract Ratchet, er… matchmake for him so he could get back to staring at Rodimus in peace, it appeared he'd accidentally fragged the Captain off mightily. Primus, how did he always mess things up so badly when it came to Rodimus? It was like he couldn't do anything right.

Drift turned back to Rodimus, who immediately plastered his biggest, fakest smile over the top of his bad mood. Thunderclash didn't know how he fooled anyone with it. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but Rodimus excused himself afterwards by slapping Drift on the aft and giving Ratchet a very pointed look, before heading over to the bar. He watched them for just long enough to see Drift turn back to Ratchet and start trying to get him to dance again, before making his way through the crowd and out of the bar. 

Thunderclash frowned. While the aft-slapping was perfectly normal for them (indeed, Drift tended to worry Rodimus was mad at him when he left it out), Rodimus did not, under any previously known circumstance, leave the bar before closing. If he was here to party, he partied until Magnus told him he had to stop. 

Thunderclash stood up, and rocked slightly on his feet as all the Engex he’d had rushed to his head at once. He'd messed up. He had to fix this. 

He followed Rodimus.

“Oh, hey, Thunderclash!” Swerve called out. He waved the glass he'd been polishing above his head. “Another Hot Rod?”

Thunderclash winced, but it seemed Rodimus was far enough ahead of him that he hadn't overheard his rather embarrassing usual.

“Thunders!”

“Hey Thunderclash!” 

“Can I get you a drink?”

He was waylaid by various crew members, the crowd around the bar slowly closing ranks around him, as Rodimus got further away from him and disappeared around the door. Felt a little like a metaphor, Thunderclash thought ruefully. He acknowledged his fanbots with a polite but disinterested smile, patting mechs on the shoulder in a way that was meant to be comradely but actually subtly shifted them out of his path. The longer it took, the less likely he'd be able to catch up with Rodimus.

He managed to extricate himself with promises for drinks to only two bots, which was pretty good going for him, and slipped out the door, only to startle when he came across Rodimus still right outside, leaning against the wall, his optics offline, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Rodimus’s eyes flashed back on at the intrusion and he groaned. 

“Oh, it's you,” he hissed. He pushed off the wall and stalked off down the corridor. 

Disheartening, Thunderclash could admit, but nothing he wasn't used to.

“Wait, Rodimus,” he called, hurrying after the Captain as he turned another corner. 

Rodimus took them down that corridor, and then halfway down another after that, until the music spilling out of Swerve’s was only a faint echo. Then, he stopped, and spun on his heel to jab an accusing finger in Thunderclash’s face.

“What the frag do you want this time?” He snapped. “I’m not in the mood!”

“I’m sorry,” Thunderclash said, holding his hands up in surrender at Rodimus’s even more intense than usual ire. “I only wished-”

“Urgh!” Rodimus groaned. He leant against the corridor wall and dragged his hands down his face in one long slow movement. “You know what, I don’t care. Do what you like.” He gestured at Thunderclash imperiously to continue, without looking at him.

“Uh, I-”

“I don’t have all day,” Rodimus demanded. “Spit it out.” He snapped his fingers. Thunderclash was taken aback. Rodimus didn’t tend to be this overt with his dislike, but it was probably because they were alone. Thunderclash… yes, Thunderclash wondered sometimes, like Ratchet did, why exactly he kept persisting in trying to make nice with Rodimus when Rodimus so clearly was not interested, but he supposed he was just an optimist. He wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t hope for the best.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” Thunderclash began. “But I saw what happened with Drift and Ratchet and I just wanted to apologise-”

“Oh, frag off, Thunderclash,” Rodimus groaned. “You don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”

“I just thought…”

“Well, stop.”

Rodimus continued to glare at the floor with his arms folded across his chest and Thunderclash stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot and wondering if he should leave and give up this apology as a bad job.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Rodimus said. “Please, can you pipe down.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on with you and Drift,” Thunderclash tried, “but I’ve found that-”

Rodimus’s head snapped up and glared daggers at him, and Thunderclash stopped mid-sentence.

“You don’t get it,” Rodimus hissed, “as I thought. Oh, here’s what perfect fragging Thunderclash would do-” he made a face, pushing off from the wall and stomping towards Thunderclash to glare straight up at him from close quarters “-well I don’t care. You. Don’t. Know. Me.” He punctuated this with an angry jab at Thunderclash’s chest decal with every word.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that!” Thunderclash protested.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I being ‘over-dramatic’?” Rodimus asked, with air quotes.

I don’t think you’re being dramatic, I think you’re just stressed, Thunderclash wanted to say, but all he could get out was “I”, before Rodimus sneered:

“Yeah, I bet you would say that, wouldn’t you, mister I-carried-the-matrix-and-now-everyone-loves-me. I carried the matrix!” Rodimus cried. “Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about that?” Rodimus jabbed his finger into Thunderclash’s chest again, grinding the tip into the Autobot badge. “Yeah, I bet you’re gonna go back to your Primus damned groupies and you’re gonna say ‘Rodimus was drunk again like an irresponsible captain and he shouted at me in a corridor like a… like a BITCH’ and they’ll say ‘oh, well, that’s just Rodimus, isn’t it, he could never live up to perfect fragging Thunderclash’!” Rodimus broke off, fuming, his vents dumping heat. 

“And there’s nothing going on between me and Drift!” he snapped. 

Rodimus seemed to be content to stand with his arms folded right up close to Thunderclash, glaring at Thunderclash’s chest decal in a huff. Thunderclash made an executive decision and took a couple of steps back. 

He wasn’t sure what to do. Obviously, Rodimus didn’t want him there, but his first instinct was to go and get Drift to fix it. Looked like Drift was part of the problem this time. If only Rodimus would let him-

“Why are you even still here?” Rodimus exclaimed, interrupting his pining. He could do with that more often in everyday life, to be honest with himself. A little Rodimus to stand on his shoulder and tell him that he was lame and a has-been or something like that every time he started getting all misty over the captain. Help keep him sane. “Do you like me verbally abusing you or something?”

Rodimus’s suggestion, having featured in, uh, one or two of Thunderclash’s recent fantasies, startled his intended response right out of his processor. Rather than the strong denial Thunderclash had intended to give, he instead let out a startled burst of static, clapped a hand over his mouth, and squeaked ‘no…’ from behind his palm in a very quiet voice. Maybe he was a little tipsy himself. Or a lot tipsy. One too many Hot Rods. 

He winced internally. Too much Hot Rod caused 99% of his problems nowadays.

Rodimus stared at him, stunned, but before long a grin began to grow on his face. Thunderclash fervently wished his spark would burn out right then and there.

“Primus, you actually do, don’t you,” Rodimus said delightedly. “You get off on me being mean to you! Ha, that’s so tragic, Thunders!”

“I’m-” Thunderclash tried, but decided mid sentence to give it up as a bad job and just sighed. It was pretty much true anyway. He would love Rodimus being mean to him in the berthroom. And now Rodimus knew about it, Primus. He was never drinking again.

“This is the best fragging thing I’ve heard all month,” Rodimus crowed. “No, all year. I think I actually hate you less now I know this about you, you know. Hard to be really mad at someone when you know their most embarrassing sexual secrets. Hah!”

“I don’t…” Thunderclash tried. “I don’t get off on it…” He groaned and put his face in his hands.

“But you totally could, right?” Rodimus snickered.

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it!” Thunderclash snapped, his face still hidden. 

“Come on, I’m right, aren’t I?” Rodimus goaded. “You all hot and bothered right now?”

“I know the difference between dirty talk and you hating me, Rodimus,” Thunderclash said. He dragged his hands down his face and sighed. Rodimus looked, if possible, even more gloating. This was quickly heading into the top five most uncomfortable conversations of his life, right underneath the small talk he’d had to make back in first year while he was untangling Ratchet from that ridiculous bondage contraption he’d bought off the dark web.

“Your paintjob sucks,” Rodimus purred.

“Please don’t, Rodimus.” Thunderclash sighed, as Rodimus slid back into his personal space and ran a teasing finger down his chestplate. “You don’t need to be cruel about it. I’ll leave you alone.”

Rodimus lazily traced around Thunderclash’s chest decal and hummed. 

“Spoilsport.” He pouted. Thunderclash gulped. Despite his best intentions, his cooling fans clicked on, and Rodimus chuckled when he heard it.

“What the frag do you think you’re doing, Rodimus?” Thunderclash said warily.

“I’ve always wondered why you seemed so desperate to be around me,” Rodimus continued, ignoring him, his voice low and provocative, “But I get it now.” He laughed. “I can practically see steam coming off your plating. Primus, you're pathetic.” 

“Rodimus, don’t-”

Rodimus looked up at him then, and the force of the disdain in his blue optics, already beginning to darken with lust, was too much, and Thunderclash groaned. Rodimus’s optics widened greedily. Were they really going to do this?

“If you get me revved up,” Thunderclash gasped out, his processor far more focused on Rodimus’s form tucked in close to his, their fields interplaying, cycling anticipation and desire back and forth between them than anything he was saying, “and then leave me here to suffer, I’m going to be really fragged off.”

“Mmm, sounds hot,” Rodimus teased. “I’d love to see that someday. Now pay attention.” His voice switched in a flash from flirtatious purr to something more like an angry growl, and Primus help him Thunderclash knew exactly which one of those revved him up more. He steeled himself. He guessed this was happening. He had no fragging idea what could be going through Rodimus’s head right now, but if he was honest with himself, was that really any different than any other encounter with the Captain?

“The people’s hero, following little old me around hoping I might be mean to him?” Rodimus said, with an audible air of glee. “It's almost too much to believe! What kind of freak gets tired of people praising him?”

Rodimus ran a finger ever so slowly down the middle of Thunderclash’s chestplate and Thunderclash shuddered and curled inwards around the movement.

“Do you like it when I call you overrated, Thunders?” Rodimus purred, looking up at Thunderclash’s still stunned face. He had a look on his own faceplates like nothing Thunderclash had ever seen on him before, a warring mixture of desire and disgust that made Thunderclash want to get on his knees and beg his forgiveness, and for Rodimus to deny him.

“When I say that you're a has-been, a joke. There's nothing special about you, and there never has been.” 

Thunderclash bit his lip but couldn't quite hold back the whimper that slipped out.

“Anyone could have done the things you've done, that's what's funny.” Rodimus continued, his fierce gaze directed right at Thunderclash’s chest, his fingers scratching at the edges of the Autobot badge like he wanted to pry it off. “Everyone I know was at Simanzi. You were just in the right place at the right time. You don't deserve their admiration, Thunderclash, you know you don't.” Rodimus looked up at him, his eyes smouldering with jealousy and not-quite-hatred, and Thunderclash’s fans kicked up a gear. 

“The only really, truly unusual thing you've ever done is survive getting shot.” Rodimus snorted. “And you didn't even do that right.”

Thunderclash wanted to close his eyes and rest his head on Rodimus’s shoulder and just listen, but then he wouldn't be able to watch the delicious expressions flitting across his face, hunger and savage satisfaction and even briefly guilt.

“I bet you loved it when I had to come in and rescue you, huh?” Rodimus said with a smug smile. Primus, was smug a good look on him.

“Oh, I know I did. Ready to lay down and die for some, charisma parasite or whatever, that withered on the spot when Megatron and me walked into the room? Did that sting, that they were so much more impressed by Megatron than by you?”

“Rodimus, I-” Thunderclash choked out, his hands desperately fluttering at Rodimus’s sides.

“Shut up and don't touch me,” Rodimus spat. Thunderclash hurriedly retreated, taking a step back. His back thudded against the corridor wall, his cooling fans practically screaming.

Rodimus stared at him, wild-eyed, his chest heaving as his cooling fans spun, body language common from Autobots who had spent significant time on earth.

“Open up,” he snapped, after a moment, nearly shaking Thunderclash out of the lust filled haze he'd fallen into.

“What... right here?” He asked, his vocaliser full of heavy static. It was a struggle to even get the words out. “It's-”

“Yes?” Rodimus prompted impatiently. 

“What if-” Thunderclash reset his vocaliser again. It didn't help. 

“Someone sees us?” Rodimus laughed. “You worried one of your little fanclub is gonna come and see who you really are? A sad and lonely little mech who'll take anything I dish out just for a chance at my spike. Do you wanna know what they'd see, if they were watching?”

Slowly, Thunderclash nodded. Rodimus stepped closer, beckoning with his finger. Thunderclash leaned over to bring his ear level to Rodimus’s mouth. 

“They'd see you, on your knees in front of me, begging for me to shove my spike down your throat,” Rodimus murmured, his breath hot on Thunderclash’s neck. “Now, does that sound like something you would like?” 

There was an audible shnickt.

“That's what I thought,” Rodimus said triumphantly. He looked down, examining Thunderclash’s array with an air of disinterest that should have made his spike wilt beneath his gaze but instead made it all the more eager, a fresh burst of lubricant flooding his valve.

“On your knees, Thunders.”

Spark whirling madly within his chest, Thunderclash did as he was told, looking up at Rodimus, who was looking down on him with something like barely concealed wonder. His fists clenched and unclenched compulsively at his sides, and Thunderclash realised Rodimus was just as nervous as he was. There would be no going back from this.

“You look good like this,” Rodimus told him. “All ready to suck my spike.”

He reached out and stroked at Thunderclash’s lower lip, pinching it between thumb and forefinger and tugging on it lightly. Thunderclash let his mouth fall open and Rodimus slipped two fingers inside, pressing down on his tongue and swirling them around. Thunderclash closed his lips around them and sucked, lightly. Rodimus withdrew, and Thunderclash followed him, his tongue running along the length of his fingers until they slipped free of his lips with a wet pop, slick and glistening with oral lubricants.

“Oh yes,” Rodimus breathed. “You'll do nicely.”

His own panel slid open and his spike pressurised in a rush, almost hitting Thunderclash on the cheek. It was red and gold and gaudy and perfect and Thunderclash thought it looked just the right size to slide down his throat, and almost fell over himself in a rush to start working on doing just that.

Rodimus choked off a little gasp at Thunderclash’s first lick to the head, followed by him dragging the flat of his tongue over it in slow and even strokes that set Rodimus’s thighs quivering. 

“No hands?” Rodimus asked, voice shaky. “Show-off.”

“You told me not to touch you,” Thunderclash said simply. 

He let the head of Rodimus’s spike slip past his lips and bobbed his head leisurely, letting Rodimus adjust to the rush of pleasure. Rodimus let out a long, low groan, fuzzy at the edges with static, and Thunderclash felt his valve get even slicker just at the sound.  
Finally, Rodimus gathered himself, unclenched his fists where they had him braced against the corridor wall, and started talking again.

“Look at you, you filthy mech,” he said, almost admiringly. “You didn't take a lot of convincing to get on your knees for me in public, did you?” 

Rodimus reached down with one hand and stroked his cheek, before slipping his thumb into his mouth and stretching it outward, letting him see the swell of his spike as it slid wetly along Thunderclash’s tongue. 

“You're rather good at this, aren’t you?” Rodimus commented idly. “Like you've sucked a lot of spikes in your time.”

A mix of oral lubricants and pre-fluid drooled out of Thunderclash’s held-open mouth, dripping onto his chin.

“Like- hmmm. Let me see. Like that guy on the Vis Vitalis, Countdown. He sure talked about you like you'd sucked him off. Maybe just once.” 

Rodimus withdrew his thumb with a wet pop. He looked at it for a moment, at the fluids slicking it and making it glisten in the light, and wiped it off on Thunderclash’s cheek. He stayed there, his hand cradling Thunderclash’s helm, stroking his thumb up and down and watching Thunderclash’s optics flicker as he decided whether or not to offline them.

“Yeah, you totally did suck his spike,” Rodimus decided. “I can see it now. I bet he was so grateful. Did he take it slow and gentle?” Another caress, and Thunderclash’s optics did actually offline this time.

“Or was he a little rougher?” Rodimus punctuated the word ‘rougher’ by suddenly tightening his grip on Thunderclash’s helm, taking control of him and pulling him forward before drawing him back, forcing Rodimus’s spike a lot further down his throat than he was prepared for, then drawing it back out almost before his throat had time to register the intrusion. 

As Thunderclash coughed and sputtered, Rodimus paused, relaxing his grip on Thunderclash’s helm and just resting his spike against Thunderclash’s lower lip. Thunderclash appreciated the chance to recover, but when he looked up at Rodimus, worried why Rodimus still hadn't continued, he found Rodimus looking down at him, stricken. 

He looked like he was worried he was about to be punched, and Thunderclash was suddenly struck by what a bad idea it had been to do something like this without talking about it first. He thought for a moment, trying to come up with the best way to reassure Rodimus he didn't want to stop. If he was honest with himself, he’d rather die than have anything stop this from happening.

He held Rodimus’s distressed gaze, then deliberately offlined his optics and took Rodimus as deep as he could, moaning exaggeratedly as he did, appreciating the stretch in his jaw and the soft groan from Rodimus as his spike slipped right to the back of Thunderclash’s mouth, just pushing at his throat calipers.

Rodimus appeared to get the message, letting Thunderclash find his rhythm again, before carrying on like nothing had happened.

“I bet he called you sir,” he purred. “I can just hear it now.” 

His hand hovered over Thunderclash’s cheek again, hesitant at first, before gripping him firmly. Thunderclash groaned low in his throat and leaned into it.

“Oh, sir,” Rodimus whined in a ridiculous falsetto, as far from Countdown’s actual voice as you could get. “Oh, thank you, sir.  
You're incredible.” Rodimus laughed, high and cruel, and it went straight to Thunderclash’s array, his optics flickering offline. He reached down, hoping to relieve his swollen and aching node, but Rodimus nudged his hand away with his foot.

“No touching yourself,” he snapped. “I've got plans for you.” Thunderclash whined, his hand hovering just above his node, close enough that he imagined he could feel the heat emanating from it. He pulled his hand back behind his back with a great effort.

“Look at me.”

Thunderclash onlined his optics again and looked up at Rodimus hazily. Rodimus rubbed little soothing circles into his cheek with his thumb, and grinned widely, his blue optics bright with delight. Slowly, giving Thunderclash time to adjust, he tightened his grip on Thunderclash’s head and began to take over his rhythm. Thunderclash relaxed into it and relaxed his throat, letting Rodimus move him back and forth and push his spike further into his throat with every stroke.

Rodimus let out a choked little gasp and sped up slightly. Thunderclash swallowed around the intrusion as best he could, but he could still feel oral lubricant and pre-fluid dripping down his chin. The thought of how messy he was going to look when Rodimus was through with him sent a pulse of excitement through his valve, and by this point he thought he was probably dripping on the floor. His spike strained against his abdominal plating and his hands kept twitching towards it, desperate to relieve the ache. He kept his eyes on Rodimus, watching pleasure play across his faceplates, flexing his tongue against his spike and seeing Rodimus groan quietly.

“Imagine what we must look like right now,” Rodimus said shakily, his voice staticky at the edges. His hand trembled where it gripped Thunderclash’s helm. Thunderclash moaned his approval. 

“You on your knees in front of me, taking it like a good bot,” Rodimus breathed. “We’re in a public corridor. Anyone could see us.”

Oral lubricant and transfluid dripping down his chin, lubricant dripping on the floor from his open panels, mouth held open obediently as Rodimus fucked his face; yes, Thunderclash knew exactly what he must look like, and it only revved him up harder. He closed his lips around Rodimus’s spike again and sucked, hard. Rodimus gave a ragged gasp and slammed his open palm into the wall, offlining his optics. He clenched his fist and bit his lip, his hips beginning to roll into his grip on Thunderclash’s helm.

“W-we could always find out,” Rodimus said, increasingly shakily. “What we look like. I wonder who's on monitor duty right no-ow!?” Thunderclash had hummed around him, and his voice climbed about an octave in response.

“I wonder what they think of us? Of you? I wonder what they’d do?” Rodimus gasped out, breathy desperation, grasping for his equilibrium. A shameful frisson of heat flashed through Thunderclash’s spark at the thought of one of his new crewmates seeing him like this, on his knees in front of the captain, right in the middle of a public corridor for all to see. He imagined their shocked embarrassment. He imagined them sliding open their own panels and self-servicing to the image of Rodimus putting him in his place.

“You and me together,” Rodimus was saying. “How could anyone resist? He'd want a turn, of course. Who wouldn't?” He punctuated this with a short, sharp thrust of his hips, forcing Thunderclash’s throat calipers apart and withdrawing before they could even protest the intrusion.

“He'd be so gentle and respectful and you'd be nice and polite, wouldn't you?” Rodimus let go of the side of Thunderclash’s helm, caressing it lightly and nudging him under his chin, reminding him to look up, right into Rodimus’s eyes. “But you'd be bored out of your fragging mind, wouldn't you?” Rodimus smirked.

“Look at you, making a mess of the floor after I called you a few names and made you choke.” Rodimus snorted. “You're spoiled now, aren't you? You're going to think of this every time some starry-eyed fan-bot wants to get all adoring underneath the ‘Greatest Autobot that Ever Lived’.” Rodimus made a face, like even saying it sarcastically was too much for him. His thrusts were starting to get jerky and erratic, his grip on Thunderclash’s helm lax, and Thunderclash bobbed his helm faster in response.

“We can go up there afterwards, if you -ah!- want,” Rodimus gasped out, in between little sighs of pleasure that he could no longer hold back. “Up to the monitor room? Get a copy for ourselves -ohhhh Primus- before we make whoever’s up there delete it. One for you, -ah!- one for me.”

Rodimus tightened his grip on Thunderclash’s helm, finally, finally, holding him still so Rodimus could frag his mouth, hitting the back of his throat with every thrust. Thunderclash did his best to hold his mouth open for him, fully aware it was just making him filthier, his chin a mess of oral lubricant and pre-fluid. He couldn't bring himself to worry about how they'd clean up after, immersed in that intoxicating mix of shame and pleasure that nobody had been able to bring out in him for years - that nobody had even tried to bring out in years, until Rodimus - made all the more potent by the wait.

“You can keep it to tide you over u-until I feel like sticking my spike down your throat again, huh?” Rodimus said, his words shaky and staticky. He bit his lip but couldn't completely hold back a whine. “Thunderclash himself self-servicing over me? Primus, that’s-” 

He cut off abruptly in the middle of his sentence, curling over Thunderclash’s helm and overloading with a cry, straight down Thunderclash’s throat with Thunderclash’s face shoved into his crotch. Thunderclash swallowed desperately, trying to take everything Rodimus gave him, but couldn't help choking at the suddenness, which Rodimus seemed to enjoy, judging by the sound of his free hand scrabbling at the wall. 

He patted Thunderclash’s helm absentmindedly and withdrew slowly, the weight of his spike sliding off Thunderclash’s tongue, trailing transfluid that dripped onto his lower lip. Rodimus staggered backward a couple of steps and just stood there, looking at Thunderclash, his spike still out and his cooling fans whining with effort. Thunderclash looked him right in the eye, and slowly and deliberately licked his lips. Rodimus’s optics brightened. He took a step forward again.

“Now, me?” Rodimus said hoarsely over the roar of his fans. He got down on his knees gingerly in front of Thunderclash, who was twitching with held-back charge, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he fought to keep them off his aching node.

“I think I'd watch it a few times too,” he mused. “I think I like you better like this.”

Rodimus put a hand on Thunderclash’s right hip and Thunderclash shuddered, groaning. Rodimus smiled. He began rubbing light circles into the plating, so close to where Thunderclash wanted him, but not close enough.

“Oh, yes,” Rodimus said as Thunderclash whimpered quietly. “I could definitely get used to this. You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Thunderclash’s awareness narrowed, his entire frame tensed and focused on the movement of Rodimus’s thumb, moving in slow and measured increments towards his array.

“Thunderclash,” Rodimus sang. “Won’t you let me know how desperate for it you are?”

“Please.” It was like a dam broke. Thunderclash begged; shamelessly, helplessly, happily. “Oh Primus Rodimus I-” his voice broke off into a long low moan as Rodimus leant in and began mouthing at his neck.

“Please Rodimus please please please please-” he chanted mindlessly, his hips grinding unconsciously in slow circles, trying to get Rodimus’s hand on him as it crept closer and closer to his array.

“Mmmm, that’s nice,” Rodimus purred, all warm and up close. “You’re just shameless, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I’m shameless,” Thunderclash whined, his fists clenching and unclenching as he writhed.

“I wonder if you could overload untouched,” Rodimus mused, placing his other hand of Thunderclash’s abdomen, trying to get him to stay still. With a great effort, Thunderclash complied, but he couldn’t hold back those unconscious twitches of his hips as he sought some kind of friction. “But that’ll have to be for another time. I’ve got places to be, you see.”

Almost absentmindedly, he slid his hand right up Thunderclash’s inner thigh, and finally - finally - got his fingers on Thunderclash’s node. Thunderclash nearly shrieked, quite ready to fall to his knees and praise Primus at this point except he was already on his knees worshipping at Rodimus’s altar and ready to stay there for as long as Rodimus would conceivably let him. Tiny little whimpering sounds were escaping him as Rodimus played with his node, slowly massaging it and spreading molten fire through his lines and struts.

“That’s it, let me hear you,” Rodimus crooned. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes!” Thunderclash gasped. “I love-” he broke off into a whine “-this! I love this!” His fists clenched and unclenched against his thighs where he was keeping them with no small effort, his fingertips scraping against his own plating, held there against the temptation of doing something stupid like tenderly touching Rodimus’s face, or going for the spoiler. Rodimus had told him no touching. He was going to be good. He was going to be missing some paint on his thighs, but he was going to be good. 

“Rodimus!” he squealed, at a particularly deft flick. 

“You’re a lot louder than I expected, Thunders,” Rodimus said. “I guess you really don’t care if anyone hears us.” He leaned in and licked a long stripe up Thunderclash’s neck cables just as he slid two fingers into Thunderclash’s valve with an obscene wet sound. More lubricant dripped onto the floor, and Thunderclash let out a strangled groan. 

“Primus, you’re so messy,” Rodimus purred, in between little nips at one of the energon lines in Thunderclash’s neck. He began to slowly draw his fingers back out, bit by bit, until he was only pressing the tips of his fingers against Thunderclash’s node, leaving Thunderclash empty and wanting.

“You look so good like this,” Rodimus said, as he slowly circled his fingers around the rim of Thunderclash’s valve. “You’re all desperate, I love it.”

“Please, Rodimus,” Thunderclash whispered, his entire being focused on the movement of those fingers.

Rodimus obliged, and Thunderclash wailed. 

“It’d almost be a shame to put that tape to waste, wouldn’t it, Thunderclash?” Rodimus mused. His thumb rubbed little circles into Thunderclash’s node as he pumped his fingers in and out of Thunderclash’s valve, scissoring them every so often, Thunderclash wet enough that they just… slid right in, his valve as desperate for Rodimus as the rest of him. His hips jerked, unconsciously following the movement of Rodimus’s fingers, and his hands fluttered and scrabbled at his thighs. 

“Please,” he chanted. “Please, please, please.” He was so close, that golden warmth spreading through his struts and lines, suffusing his processor until he could think of nothing else but Rodimus, nothing else to say but please. 

“Since you look so nice, and all,” Rodimus was still saying, “and you’ve been so good. It’d be a shame to keep it to ourselves, don’t you think?”

Thunderclash muzzily refocused his optics on Rodimus, 90% of his processor taken up by a little voice screaming ‘oh Primus YES’. What was he…?

“We can have a little movie night, Thunders,” Rodimus said. He chuckled. “Everyone can see you on your knees for me.”

He was… oh.

He tensed as hot molten pleasure flashed through all his circuits at once, hard enough to make him see stars, and the next thing he knew he was on his side on the floor with Rodimus leaning over him in a panic.

“Thunderclash?” Rodimus called. “Are you okay?” He cursed under his breath when Thunderclash didn’t reply right away. 

Rodimus had… apparently sent him into involuntary reset with just two fingers and a silver tongue. Wow. That really didn’t speak well of his interface life in the past couple of vorns before this.

Thunderclash laboriously levered himself back up to sitting. He felt pleasantly loose and strutless, the world warm and soft around the edges.

“I really needed that,” he said hoarsely. 

“Oh, thank Primus.” Rodimus sighed in relief, all the tension leaving his frame. “I thought I’d broken you.”

“You certainly did,” Thunderclash said, marvelling at how relaxed and satisfied and, dare he say it, smug he felt. “But in a really good way.”

“I’m glad.” Rodimus smiled, small and a little shy, a far cry from his typical gregarious grin or the arrogant smirk he’d worn while leading Thunderclash towards the finest overload he’d had in recent memory. Thunderclash’s spark fluttered uncomfortably behind his chestplates. 

Rodimus’s smile grew. So much for that, then.  
“Movie night, huh?” he teased. “‘Clash, you dark horse.”

Thunderclash groaned and put a hand over his eyes. “I guess it was too much to hope you somehow didn’t notice that.”

“Come on, ‘Clash.” Rodimus chuckled, tugging his hand back down. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re fine, it’s fine.” Rodimus smiled kindly at him, and Thunderclash stared. Was Rodimus trying to kill him?

“It was fun, right?”

“Yeah?” Thunderclash replied hesitantly. 

“So it’s fine. Now come on, scoot over, I’m tired.” Rodimus made little shooing motions until Thunderclash got the hint and shuffled over a bit so Rodimus could sit next to him on the floor, slumped with his back against the wall. Rodimus wrinkled his nose. 

“Are we sitting in your lubricant, Thunderclash?” he demanded. 

Thunderclash couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Rodimus tried to stay stern, but soon the corners of his mouth turned up, almost reluctantly, and he snorted and started to giggle. It was adorable. Thunderclash began to doubt that he’d get out of this alive. 

“How much lubricant-” Rodimus forced out between peals of laughter- “does one bot need?”

“Excuse me,” Thunderclash retorted, “but I think this is your fault, actually.”

“My fault?” Rodimus put a hand to his chest as if to say ‘who, me?’, gasping in mock outrage. 

“I don’t exactly make a habit of lubricating all over the corridors,” Thunderclash said. He leaned in close and said in a low teasing voice “you bring out the worst in me, Rodimus Prime.” Rodimus snorted, and didn’t pull away. With a little thrill, Thunderclash counted that a victory. 

“Hell yeah I do,” Rodimus said triumphantly. “If the evidence wasn’t currently drying on my thighs, frag this, I would totally be halfway to convincing myself the whole thing was some out-there recharge flux my shameless processor came up with while I wasn’t watching. Did we seriously just do that?”

“I’m still not sure I didn’t dream this up,” Thunderclash remarked, as Rodimus frowned down at his now sticky palm. Rodimus reached out and whacked him. “Hey!”

“There,” Rodimus announced. “That hurt. So not dreaming, right?”

“I can’t fault your logic.” Thunderclash pouted, rubbing his sore arm. “I just wish you’d gone for something more subtle.”

“I don’t know if you haven’t noticed, ‘Clash, but I’m not subtle. Now come on!” Rodimus jumped to his feet and stretched out, groaning as some cable in his back made a little twanging noise. He leant down and offered Thunderclash a hand. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Thunderclash took that hand, but as he’d suspected he might have to he did most of the work on standing up anyway, Rodimus simply not big enough to budge his larger frame. 

“Come back to my hab, yeah?” Rodimus suggested, a little hesitantly. “I’ve got private washracks. Captain’s privilege.”

“Thanks, Rodimus,” Thunderclash said. They smiled at each other for a moment, before Rodimus coughed and they both hurriedly looked in opposite directions. A kind of awkwardness was threatening to settle over them; the awkwardness of two people trying to hold a conversation when the longest amount of time they’d spent with each other beforehand was when they were having kinky semi-public sex together about ten minutes ago. Thunderclash wished Rodimus would smile at him some more. 

“Uh, Rodimus,” he said, as Rodimus tugged on his hand and started off down the corridor on the way to his habsuite. “What about the floor?”

Rodimus - brought to an abrupt and surprising stop by the fact the bot he was trying to drag along behind him simply hadn’t budged - cursed. “Frag, I forgot.”

They both looked down at the evidence of their dalliance - the scene of the crime, if you will. Rodimus had been right, Thunderclash thought. That was quite a ridiculous amount of lubricant. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a washcloth or something in your subspace, have you?” Rodimus asked him. 

“No.”

“Ah.”

The corridor was really quite wet. Magnus might have called it a slipping hazard. 

Rodimus suddenly turned all smooth and sinuous, melting against Thunderclash’s side. 

“Lick it up, won’t you, Thunders?” he purred. Thunderclash sighed. 

“I’m not fragging doing that, Rodimus,” he said. 

“That’s fair,” Rodimus replied with a decisive nod, sagging against Thunderclash as soon as he switched off the seduction. Thunderclash took him by the shoulder and levered him upright again. He looked him up and down, and felt suddenly mischievous. 

“There’s a bit on you, though,” he commented idly. “Let me get that for you.”

He got down in front of Rodimus, took him by the hips, and licked a long stripe of transfluid off his abdomen. Rodimus squeaked.

Thunderclash looked up, and Rodimus was watching him, flushed, with a hand over his mouth, his fans suddenly revving again.

“Can we please just leave it?” Rodimus pleaded from behind his hand. “I think we should absolutely go back to my habsuite right now this very moment, thanks.”

“Rodimus…”

“Frag! Fine!” Rodimus threw his hands up in frustration.

“There’s got to be a supply closet somewhere near here,” said Thunderclash. 

“Where?” 

“Rodimus, it’s your ship,” Thunderclash reminded him. 

“Uh,” Rodimus frantically wracked his brains, jiggling from foot to foot. “This way!” he announced, and pulled Thunderclash after him at a breakneck pace. 

“This is flattering,” Thunderclash said as Rodimus pulled him around a corner, almost smacking him into the wall, “but we need to go and get the security tape after this.” Rodimus wailed. 

“Stop being fragging responsible!” he snapped. “Fine, we’ll erase the tape.” He slowed to a walk, still holding onto Thunderclash’s hand and leading him along behind him. “This is going to take foreeeeeeeever,” He grumbled, after a moment. Thunderclash couldn’t help but be charmed by his total lack of patience.

“Who said anything about erasing?” Thunderclash said with a sly smile. Rodimus looked at him in shock, and Thunderclash winked. “If you don’t want a copy, I’m having one.” 

Rodimus practically yanked his arm out of its socket in his hurry, and soon they were sprinting even faster than before down the corridor towards the purported maintenance closet.

“Thunderclash,” Rodimus announced, “when we get back to my habsuite, I am tying you to my berth and we are not leaving for the next three days.”

Thunderclash couldn’t find it in himself to argue with that.

**Author's Note:**

> they're sappily in love by the end of the month and it's disgusting to everyone that has to see it
> 
> Rodimus was actually just upset bc if Drift gets a boyfriend he'll want to hang out less. but now Rodimus has a boyfriend, so it's fine. Rodimus wins.


End file.
